Bun Balaur
by Mithara Tolthoron
Summary: This little piece of quasi-coherent drabble is brought to you by caffine and 3:30 AM. Please review, if only to tell me what not to do next time.


The blood was sweet on her hands, seeping softly through the gashes in her palms, sliding down her arms like a lover's embrace. She flexed her hands open, breath catching deep in her throat. What exultant agony.  
  
Her eyes flickered in and out of focus. It would have been nauseating, if she hadn't done it so many times before.  
  
Perfect. Prefect. Beater no one could beat. They all weighted her down, pushed her up and tore her in two. Hers was not the Darkness of the Dark Lord, no, she did not fall prey to the petty foibles of her fellows and housemates, hers was a much older folly.  
  
Draco couldn't sleep. In fact, he was having a very uncharacteristic bout of insomnia that he was at a loss to understand. With a sigh, he rolled out of his bed, barely noticing the cold press of the ground beneath his feet. That was beneath him, after all. The son of the Dark Lord's Lieutenant, the world was not allowed to touch him like *ordinary* mortals, no.  
  
With a sneer, he padded out of the dormitory room, slim Seeker's figure carrying him with fluid strides down the dank unwelcoming halls of the Slytherin compound.  
  
Something caught his attention... A sound. No, it was a smell. The smell of fresh blood, and coming from... The wall? Curiosity pricked at the base of his skull, and he readied his wand in one hand, and stepped through.  
  
Draco blinked. The smell of blood was heavy in the air, and deep, rasping breaths. The room was barren, nothing but a stripped-down four-poster bed in the corner with nothing on it but a mattress and a set of sheets.  
  
And a shape. His eyes narrowed in the darkness, struggling to make sense of the dark shrouded figure. He took a step closer, then remembered his wand. With a small internal smirk at his folly, he murmured "Lumos," and there was light.  
  
The shape - a girl, he saw now - flinched away, cowering into the corner, head down and a cascade of black hair falling to obscure everything else about her.  
  
Except... Something tugged at his memory. She was wearing... From what he had seen - he was not exactly used to making note of these things - something very like a robe, but of a silky fabric that was black, but almost sheer. That wasn't what had him puzzled, though. It hadn't fit right. The arms had been too narrow, and it parted, to expose her legs, which were wrapped in the same fabric, rather obviously pants, not exactly a common wizarding affectation.  
  
Realization dawned. With a swift intake of breath that carried the heavy stench deeper into his lungs, he lunged for the bed, wand still held ready. "Katja?" His voice, he knew, was breathy, and heavy with worry. But it did not prepare him for her look...  
  
The usually calm and collected - nay, icy - Slytherin was panting heavily, the livid green of her irises almost completely lost in the void of her dilated pupils. Her lips were reddened - as if she'd been kissed, or hit - and she was even paler than usual.  
  
Draco swallowed, knees jarring against the frame of the bed as she looked up, the fifth year's expression completely unreadable.  
  
"Stop." One of her hands came up, spread in the traditional gesture of warding, but that was not what riveted the pale blond's attention.  
  
Blood. Rivulets of it were still creeping from the jagged maw that had been her palm, long fingers gleaming wetly, the sleeve of her robe pushed up to her elbow and stiffly sodden. She moved, swaying to her knees, putting her eyes level with the boy - who was, in truth, very much the same height as the statuesque beater - who gasped and swallowed audibly.  
  
She laughed, blinking her eyes back into sharp focus, senses racing. "Lo, how far the mighty have fallen, drag Zmau?" He accent was back, stronger than he could remember it being, even First year, when her mother tongue was still fresh on her lips and English a language she had only spoken in lessons. It took his breath away, as did the caressing way she said them, heavy 'r's rolled like a cat's purr. He wished he knew that the last two words meant...  
  
He swallowed again, letting his hands - one still clutching his wand - fall to his sides, eyes wide and knees weak. He was suddenly glad of the bed frame against his knees, and attempted a soothing smile, which ended up far more a worried grimace. "Ahh... Wha- what are you doing, Kaja?" He used the nickname without thinking, then ventured further, "Do you need any help? You... You're bleeding."  
  
He was supposed to be a Dark Wizard, for the love of god! And he turned to wet clay when faced with a little... blood. But it wasn't supposed to be like this! Katja had been his friend since her first days at Hogwarts, if any Slytherin truly had friends. She was a year below him, though they were of an age. She should not be in a barren room alone, bleeding!  
  
Katja smiled, insinuating herself closer to the troubled boy, eyes darkened with something that he couldn't read. He almost took a step backwards, but his stubborn pride forbade him. So he swallowed instead, and took another breath, the sharp copper tang becoming heavier with every inch closer she swayed.  
  
To his horror, she extended her hand again, this time coming dangerously close to his face. "Ah.. Balaur... Is it so bad, truly?" Her lips pulled themselves into a lop-sided grin, and one brow raised far above the other, something Draco had never been able to master. But just as the expression had almost distracted him from the situation, the first two fingers of her hand grazed the height of his cheek, sliding back until her hand was entwined in the hair at the nape of his neck, and her face was inches from his, breath hard on her lips.  
  
Draco squeaked, and fought a shiver of revulsion. There was blood on his face, and surely matting in his hair and... He swallowed, giving serious thought to being violently ill.  
  
Katja shook her head slowly, bringing her free hand - also ripped and bleeding, he noted - to wave a finger reprovingly at him. "That is not the way, little one. *Feel* it, Zmau. Can you feel it?" Her wide smile was not entirely sane, and her breath on his lips was making it hard to think, though he shook his head - or at least tried to - hurriedly.  
  
"What? Feel what?" He sounded like a little boy, and he didn't really care. He was afraid. There was a cold stuttering in the pit of his stomach, and his hands were shaking, wand dropped and forgotten.  
  
She smiled. His eyes followed the movement, pale blue trained on her lips, so entranced that he did not notice when she moved swiftly forward, the lips that so entranced him pressing hard against his with bruising force.  
  
Draco squeaked, nothing in his short life preparing him for that moment. A few gropes with the squeaking and deeply unattractive Pansy and heated and largely imagined acts with the dark things in the magazines that he had 'found' in his father's wardrobe had nothing on this... She moved back a little, and he remembered to breathe. Her eyes opened again, and again he saw that... Intensity, there. "Do you feel it? Do you, Bun Balaur?" He nodded a little, though he wasn't sure exactly what she meant. But there was a ringing in his ears and a pounding in his chest, and where had the fear in the pit of his stomach gone? It was lost in the heat that sat there, only fueled by her voice. He licked his lips nervously, and froze. "Blood..." 


End file.
